


the way he looks.

by broikawa



Series: how does one begin to describe you? [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Adam Parrish Likes Ronan Lynch, Character Study, Hands, M/M, Pining, Poetic, Post-Blue Lily Lily Blue, Pre-The Raven King, Ronan Lynch-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 23:05:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broikawa/pseuds/broikawa
Summary: how does one begin to describe ronan lynch?or; adam parrish is a pining mess





	the way he looks.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this to get my feelings out because i too am a pining boy
> 
> also, character studies are fun.

How does one begin to describe Ronan Lynch?

Most can’t, or can’t do it well.

Adam Parrish spent too much time describing Ronan to himself. All he seemed to do at that point was describe Ronan, thinking about the way he acted, the way he moved.

Everything about him was so much.

The sharpness of his eyes, the arc of his eyebrow, the way his jaw tightened when he was annoyed. The way the corner of his lips turned up with satisfaction when he pissed off his brother. The pink of his ears, the blue of his eyes, the soft peach of his cheeks. The fullness of his all-teeth smiles when he was having too much fun. The way he pursed his lips when he looked down on someone and the way he looked down at him because of the long length of his legs. His smiles of ‘this is a bad idea let’s fucking do it’ and of ‘I’m not as fine as I seem but you don’t need to know that’. The way his nose scrunched up in disgust and the way his nose scrunched up when he laughed.

The way his shirts hung on his body, back almost exposed through the large arm holes. The way his spite-filled tattoo poked out from his collar and his sleeves. The way his shoulders moved under his skin, how soft his skin looked. He was probably so warm. The way he was without a shirt, whatever the reason may be. The way his ribs poked at his abdomen and the way his stomach stretched when he reached his arms over his head. The way his jeans hugged his legs making them look longer than they already were, the way they helped give him thoughts he’d never say aloud. And, God, his hips, and the way he walked at any given moment, tough and big and in-your-face or tired and stumbling and in need of rest.

The way he looked the only time he’s ever seen him cry. The way his lips quivered before forming profanities, the way the tears kept going and going and going as if, with every second, his rage made them go faster and faster and faster out his eyes and down his cheeks. How pink his nose and his cheeks were, wet with tears and snot. The way his hands were and then weren’t and then were in fists. The way he breathed, in and out, heavy and loud and pained. He couldn’t even remember why he cried or why he was there when he did. But he remembered how he fell asleep after on the couch, face red but light, free of the weight from the emotions he’d been feeling before. He sat on the floor next to the couch. He looked at him. He looked so beautiful.

The shape of his hands and the way they gave him bad ideas and embarrassing thoughts that made him blush when they came to mind. The thought of holding those hands in his and the thought of having those hands holding him, holding his cheek or his waist or his thigh or his back, the thought of those hands in his hair or the thought of his hands on the near lack of his hair, brushing over the soft texture of his scalp. The thought of his fingertips brushing on his arm or the back of his hand brushing on the back of his. The way his hands looked after he fought someone, someone being his brother, bloodied and bruised purple. The way his hands looked on the steering wheel of his car, holding on too tight making his veins visible and how they moved over it slowly when he made a turn.

The soft pink of his lips, and the irony of them. His mouth was so sharp, so dangerous, so threatening, full of harsh words and curses and insults and carelessness and it was just so goddamn attractive. Despite the smaller number of words that exited his mouth, each one of them was a song on its own. The curses that came from his lips were something more than beautiful; the sarcastic ones, the angry ones, the shocked, the scared, the easy, oh, how they came out of his mouth so easily. The look of his lips when they formed the words to the songs he listened to through his headphones, and the songs he listened to in the first place. Some of them weren’t even to his taste but he knew how to throw together a playlist. The way the playlist he made for him made him feel when he drove down long and winding roads to work or to school or to him. The way those sharp, dangerous lips of his also said the softest things; the way he cooed at his bird or how he cared for his friends or the way he said his name, oh, God, the way he said his name made him melt like butter in a microwave or an ice cream on a hot day. The way he spoke was enthralling; he could listen to him talk all day if he could.

Enamoured, perhaps, is how you could describe Adam.

**Author's Note:**

> if u get the reference of the title i luv you
> 
> tumblr: etherealparrish


End file.
